We Pick Ourselves Undone
by PartyInTheNorth
Summary: Future AU in which Jon is married to Daenerys Targaryen, who sends him as an envoy to the Queen in the North, Sansa Stark. He didn't realise he had missed her that much. Spoilers (sort of) for ASOS-onwards. One-shot.


She sat well on a throne. Better than him. Maybe even better than Daenerys.

When his wife had asked him to go to Winterfell to talk with the Queen In The North, Jon had leapt at the chance. He hadn't been North of the Neck since the Night's Watch had disbanded and Daenerys had stolen him, like he had stolen Ygritte, all those years before. He didn't love Daenerys, not as a wife, in any case, and whenever he thought of the North, he remembered love: the innocent devotion of his little sister Arya, the heated camaraderie of Robb, the fiery passion of Ygritte. But Sansa had never loved Jon, and he could only wonder how she would take his return. He didn't think he could stand the only remaining Stark not welcoming him home. As it was, he didn't have to.

A steward he didn't know greeted him in the courtyard and led him through to the rebuilt Great Hall. The throne was on the centre of a raised platform, a magnificent oak chair, the majesty of nature to combat the metal anger of the Iron Throne.

She sat elegantly, her long, lean frame robed in sky blue, her woollen, fur-trimmed dress a sight for sore eyes. Her hair was longer than before, and bright, glimmering red in the light from the candelabra. She wore a thin silver band around her forehead, engraved with the words, 'The North Remembers', halfway between a badge of pride in their history and a threat to any Southron who dared go against them. Her crown was simple but proud, like her rule. Jon got down on one knee, dipping his head.

'Your Grace,' he said.

'Don't jape, Jon,' she said, in a voice that aimed for lightness but was far too laden with the ache of fifteen years' pain to hit its target, 'You're my br- cousin, there is no need for such formalities.'

Sansa stood at the same time as him and walked briskly over to him. She stopped briefly before him, staring at his face as if sizing him up, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, letting all her tiny weight rest against him. Jon hesitated a moment and then seized her tightly against him, feeling her relax slightly under his strong embrace.

...

They went off to the Godswood together as soon as they could, both of them sitting on a log before the Heart Tree. Sansa was wrapped in a fur bigger than her, and she sat close enough to Jon that his arm was squashed. After a moment, he had to lift it out, and Sansa apologised for sitting on him, but Jon took a risk, and wrapped it around her, holding her close.

They sat there in silence for a while, until finally Jon spoke.

'But you hated me.'

Sansa curled further into his chest, her fingers clutching at his clothes. She whispered her answer, 'I didn't hate you.'

'You certainly acted like that,' he pointed out, not unkindly.

'I... My Mother disliked you and I thought that she was the perfect lady,' confessed Sansa in a small voice that he could only just hear over the wind, 'I thought whatever she did was the correct thing to do. I never even gave you a chance.'

Sansa was crying, Jon realised as her voice stammered. He put a hand on her cheek and pulled her face away from his chest to look at her.

'I... I'm sorry, Jon,' she was babbling, 'I didn't... She didn't know you weren't really a bastard...'

'Sansa,' Jon shushed her, waiting for her eyes to drag up to his, 'I forgive you. There is nothing to apologise for. We are together again, there is nothing to be done about the past.'

'Yes,' she whispered, smiling slightly at him, 'And you must tell me everything. How did a bastard crow end up a King, married to Daenerys Targaryen?'

Jon laughed lightly. 'That is a long story, cousin, and one that would be better told inside.'

...

After dinner, they settled in Sansa's solar, sitting across from each other at the little table. They were playing a game of cards, and Jon was losing.

'You are quite terrible at this game, Jon,' Sansa laughed, placing her hand atop his on the table.

'I'm sorry, Your Grace,' he said, with only the tiniest hint of a smile, 'All that time beyond the Wall has frozen my brain.'

Sansa smiled sadly, putting her cards down. 'I missed you, Jon,' she whispered, 'I didn't know how much I loved you until I didn't have you any longer. I... I was so scared and... I wanted you and Robb to protect me.'

Jon had heard what Joffrey Baratheon had done to her. The very thought made him clench his fists, almost throwing her hand off his. 'If I had been there, Sansa,' he declared in a low voice, 'I would have torn his head off with my bare hands.'

Sansa bit her lip, and Jon could see tears in her eyes. He stood up abruptly and came around the table to her. She rose to her feet just as briskly, and suddenly his hand was on her cheek, the other grasping at the material on her waist. Her fingers clawed at his chest in shuddering grasps, and their eyes met for a long moment; Tully blue on wintry grey.

And then he pressed his lips to hers. It was a frosty kiss, light yet biting like a winter wind, neither of them hot with passion but both calm and slow. Then something clicked in Sansa, like she had broken through her stiff, protective demeanour and was finally letting out the wild North from within. She bit his lip and then dragged it out as she pulled away.

'San- I'm sorry,' Jon said the moment he could speak, but the fire was in her eyes now and Sansa smiled brightly.

'Don't be,' she breathed hotly, 'I've loved you a long while, Jon Snow, just let me have this one pleasure.'

She pressed her lips to his again, snaking her tongue between his lips, but Jon pulled back, and implored her, 'Sansa, I'm married.'

'And rumour has it that Queen Daenerys spends her nights with a man of her Kingsguard, a Ser Jorah Mormont,' Sansa said, halfway between seductive and desperate for his touch, 'She does not need you.'

Jon was a man of honour, though, and so he held Sansa at arm's length. 'Regardless of what my wife does, I am a man of honour as Lord Eddard taught me, and I cannot ruin you, sweet sister.'

He had hoped calling her sister would bring her back to her old attitude of stiffness, even if it would hurt him to be treated coldly by Sansa again, but she just looked tragically sad. Her eyes met his again, wet with tears.

'Don't you see, Jon?' she asked, her voice wavery, 'I'm already ruined!'

'But, I-' Jon protested, 'I didn't-'

Sansa laughed hysterically, nearer a sob than a laugh, and said, 'No, Jon! Not you, never you.' She looked down and scrunched up her eyes before she said, 'Petyr Baelish.'

Jon saw red. He wasn't a violent man, but right then he wanted nothing more than to take a knife to Littlefinger and tear out each of his eyes individually for even looking at Sansa, and then chop of his fingers one at a time for daring to touch her. He gathered her into his arms and held her tightly.

'I love you too, Sansa,' he whispered into her ear, remembering her earlier words. She pulled back and half-smiled at him. He leant in gently and kissed her, soft as a feather and warm against her lips.

And this time, neither of them made excuses.

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this one, I was just in an angsty mood and I couldn't think of a better outlet for my angst than some lovely Jon x Sansa! The title, if you're interested, is from Flaws by Bastille, which is such a gorgeous song! Thanks for reading, and if you have any requests for future fics... let me know.**


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